


Confrontation

by Ghelik



Series: The 100 Fics [27]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Missing Scene, Moral Dilemmas, Politics, Religion, Season/Series 04, at least it is if you ignore 4x10, since i wrote this before watching the episode, which I will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 22:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10817847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: The night before the Conclave Roan finds a very drunk very despairing Clarke.





	Confrontation

"Sorry I messed up your chance of being the Commander", growls Roan sardonically, anger still humming in his veins. The girl, his friend, who has betrayed him once again, is slumped over a table, a big cup in one hand and a half-empty bottle of that disgusting drink they call moonshine resting near her elbow.

  
“I didn’t _want_ to be the Commander. All I wanted was…”

 

“What’s best for everyone” interrupts Roan imitating her voice with astonishing accuracy. “Of course. How silly of me.”

 

“It doesn’t matter now.” Clarke takes another swing of her cup. “Congratulations, you can keep killing each other. Until there’s no one left.”

 

The King looks at her for a long moment, finally shaking his head. “Unbelievable. How is the view from your high horse, Wanheda?”

 

Slowly she stares up at him, frowning like it takes a lot of concentration to just do that. “What?”

 

He squares his shoulders. No matter how much she’s drunk, how pathetic she now appears, he knows the danger she poses is real. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. And it angers him, that he keeps falling for the innocent mirage she projects. “We don’t need you to save us, Clarke. We’re quite capable of taking care of ourselves.”

 

“What did you want me to do? You…”

 

“How about respecting that which is sacred?” he hadn’t noticed how much it stung, at first. Roan doesn’t consider himself a religious man, but thinking of the Blood being desecrated bothers him deeply. For someone he considered a friend to do so, only added insult to the injury. These sky people know no honor and honor no tradition, and Roan knows it, has seen it with his own eyes, over and over. But still… How foolish he must seem. How stupid she must think he is. “But how could you understand such a thing?”

 

Clarke gawks at the king for a moment. “Go float yourself, Roan” is all she can muster, before bowing her head back down in what Roan supposes is some sort of shame. If Wanheda were to have shame, which he’s starting to believe she doesn’t.

 

“No” she whispers into her cup, frowning that sad, angry kitten frown that makes her look young and innocent. “No, you know what? Go float yourself, you asshole!" her head snaps up so suddenly her neck pops "Ever since I came here I’ve tried reasoning, I tried stopping war, after war, after war. Ever since I came down here, you have been pissing all over what _I_ think is sacred. And I’ve adhered to your rules. You wouldn’t accept peace, so I fought you. You wouldn’t fight by our side, so I got rid of your enemy. I conquered lands for my people, I banished myself so you would fucking leave them alone and still, you attacked! Again. And again. And again. And I don’t know what to do anymore!” The young skaikru leader takes a shuddering breath, her face twisted with so much raw anger and anguish like he’s never seen her display before. “You think I want to be Commander? You think I want to lead anyone? I don’t! I! DO! NOT! WANT! TO! I never wanted to. You might think that I was _born_ t-to be a… a Leader. I wasn’t!” her eyes are sparkling, crystal clear blue pools. “I wasn’t born to be a leader. I was never born to be a leader, Roan! I was supposed to be a doctor!” her lip quivers, voice going higher in her uncontrolled anger and despair. “I was born to be a doctor. I was raised to be a healer. Stood by my mother’s side in the med-bay since I was ten years old. I wanted to take the Oath when I became eighteen! And I might not have always liked the job, but it was my purpose. On the Ark, we all had a purpose, and that was mine. To protect. To heal. To save lives.”

 

Big fat tears roll down her cheeks, and she pulls her eyes away, shaking her golden head.

 

“Wanheda.” She sobs, and it is sort of fascinating in a twisted, heartbreaking way, to see the composed Bringer of Death unraveling like a badly knitted scarf. “T-that is what I had to become to have my people safe. How… How can I… How can I go back from there?” she takes a deep hiccuping breath.

 

“The ground has made you stronger.”

 

“The ground has done shit! You have! You and Lexa, and Indra and Anya and the mountain men!” she bows her head and whispers so quietly he nearly misses it: “And skaikru. You’ve taken all that I was taught and thrown it out the window. And I went willingly because it meant that more lives could be saved in the long run.” She takes another shuddering breath. For a moment the king can practically see her scrambling to get all the pieces of her shattered composure back together, to piece back some semblance of control.

 

He itches to push her over the edge, see everything she tries to hide, understand what goes on in that weird little head of hers.

 

“I injected myself with the night blood to save Emori. I didn’t plan to try to become the Commander when I did it.”

 

“It just occurred to you later.” He lets the skepticism sound thick in his voice, and she snorts, looking away.

 

“It saved your life.”

 

Roan heaves a sigh.

 

His mother was right: he must be weak. Because even after everything she's done; after every betrayal, every excuse, he still considers her his friend. And he can sort of understand why she would do... everything she does, even if it makes a part of him sick to his stomach.

 

Roan watches her clean her nose with her sleeve, and it hits him like a ton of bricks: this unhinged, sobbing girl - because no matter what she has done, she's still just a girl - is nearly ten years his junior. 

Clarke wears such a tightly sewn façade, moves with such confidence, _manipulates_ with such ease, he tends to forget it. He forgets that he was actually taught to make these choices and understand the consequences of politics. Lexa might have been young and rash at times, but even the Commander had been twenty years old and had been groomed for this. 

 

“You’re quite a piece of work, aren’t you Wan-Clarke.” He sits down next to her, putting a heavy hand on her shoulder. “There are things that you cannot take from the people, Clarke. Beliefs… Beliefs are important, they keep the world balanced. You take those from the people and…” he stares at her. “And they become ruthless. Beliefs make up the barriers that people won’t cross.”

 

“Not even for the greater good,” she muses mournfully, sullenly, like a child that’s been deprived of a favorite toy.

 

The king presses his lips together. It’s a thin line they’re toeing here.

 

“Who are you to decide what’s best for everyone?” his voice comes kind. Kinder than any of his instructors ever was, that's for sure.

 

“I’d say war isn’t good for anyone.”

 

Roan shrugs.

 

“It cleanses the blood. Makes sure only the strong survive.”

 

Clarke considers his words for a moment. “What about those who are too weak to fight?”

 

“They’re not fit to survive.”

 

“What about those that are not proficient with the sword but have a great brain? Aren’t they necessary? Aren’t they scholars and poets and engineers? They die, and then the human race just gets stupider and stupider.”

 

“It is how it is. Those who are fit to survive, do. Either by their own hand or through the protection of others.” He pauses. Softer he adds “You were ready to handpick one hundred from among your own people. Those fittest for survival. How is that different?”

 

“They’re definitely not only warriors.”

 

“War is impartial. It doesn’t care.”

 

Clarke shakes her head. “But why go to war at all. There are 12 000 spots in that bunker. There’s no need to fight over it. We could all survive. We could share equally.”

 

“But that is not our way.”

 

Clarke raises her cup to her lips, scowls at it when she finds it empty. “No offense, but that is a seriously stupid way.”

 

“And yet we have survived one Praimfaya already.” The look the young Wanheda throws at him is positively poisonous, and he has to fight back a smirk. “Who are you to judge our ways anyway? To decide that yours is better?”

 

She doesn’t answer, grabbing instead clumsily for the bottle. Roan pulls it out of her reach. “Enough, Clarke.”

 

“Who are you to decide I’ve had enough?” she shoots back with a pout.

  
The king chuckles and messes up her already tangled and dirty hair with a big hand. “Brat.” 

Roan didn’t grow up with his half-sister, but he believes it would have felt something like this. Clarke fits into that category so comfortably, it is hard to see her as anything but. Which will probably cost him dearly in the long run. “Go to bed. Tomorrow will be a hard day.”

 

“Octavia will kick your ass.” She decides, brow knitted into a defiant frown, hopping off the stool and promptly falling against his side. “You’ll see.”

 

“The best fighter will prevail.”

 

She stumbles away from him, probably to go find a place to curl up against her Natswis' side. Clarke trips and ends up nearly slamming headfirst into the ajar door. She grabs the wooden frame, leaning heavily against it, blinking around like the room has personally offended her. Then her eyes fall on something beyond the door. She goes rigid, her eyes round and scared for a moment before she turns to him. A weak, unconvincing smile trying - and failing - to hide her fear.

 

“Make a bargain with me.”

 

“The time for alliances is long past, Clarke. It’s every clan for itself now.”

 

“There are twelve hundred spots in that bunker. I only ask for one.”

 

And she isn’t looking at him, her eyes fixed on something beyond the door.

 

“We will also get you a spot inside the bunker if we win. A spot for a spot." she nods her head. "It is fair.” She looks at him briefly, before her head lolls back and she’s staring out the door once more.

 

Roan joins her to take a peek outside. The skaikru Natswis is sitting on a chair, arms crossed over his chest and head fallen forward. He’s clearly sleeping. Slumped against the wall, his gun across his knees. Ready to defend at a moment’s notice.

 

The king sighs. He should have known.

 

“You know he won’t come without you.”

 

“I don’t care.” Clarke’s whispering now, but if all her shouting hasn’t woken him yet, Roan doubts it will now. “Just promise me he will be inside when you close the doors.”

 

“You’re making choices for other people again, Clarke.”

 

“No, I’m not. This one is just for me.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading and commenting :D 
> 
> They finally added the words for "Knife in the dark" to the trigedasleng dictionary. Which would translate as "Riski Swis". Soooo.... Yeah, Bellamy's Kenning is now "Natswis" (Night Knife) which sounds slightly cooler and not at all like a Swiss person doing dangerous stuff. Or, maybe I'll just stick to the English version because I've been using it for too long. 
> 
> Anyway, after seeing Clarke's decision at the end of 4x10, and Roan doing what Roan does during 4x10, this has turned into a Canon Divergent Fic ;_;


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